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by Intomyfireyoushallfall (scorpiontales)



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Comics), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:50:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Intomyfireyoushallfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TMNT 44# was brutal. The wait is worse. A series of family reactions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Splinter

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this first on Tumblr in different installments, each taking a look at a different son. Now I'm posting it as a huge chunk. Huzzah! I plan on doing an April installment but I make no promises, so I'm marking this as complete for now. 
> 
> TMNT isn't mine.

 

            Splinter can’t do this again.

            He couldn’t do it the first time. He didn’t even have to. His sons were all killed a second before his own demise. A dead man couldn’t bury his children. A dead man couldn’t make their grave markers. A dead man couldn’t be forced to live without them.

            Splinter is not dead this time. He still breaths, his heart still beats. Shredder has not taken the life of Hamato Yoshi a second time.

            At least not yet. Because if Donatello never wakes, if he fades in the middle of the night, if Splinter never gets to see him smile again, the Shredder might as well have murdered him once more.

            Murdered. That’s what Splinter thought when he first stumbled upon his son, bleeding out on the concrete floor. Donatello was too still to be otherwise, too pale, too cold. He was so sure history had repeated itself. But then Donatello breathed, right there as Splinter began to watch the world turn grey, and after that-

            Well, things had been hectic.

            He probably won’t make it. That’s the official word according to April, though she didn’t say it outright. Too much nerve damage. Too much blood. Too much of everything. The young woman had sobbed after seeing his son for the first time. Cursed the world for doing this, the Shredder for existing, herself for daring to use a vial of ooze that they so desperately needed at the moment. And for the briefest of moments, Splinter wanted to blame her too.

            His sons look up to him as an idol of virtue. Moral integrity. A man who almost blamed a girl for a tragedy she had no part in. A man who let his vendetta consume him. A man who has let his sons slip through his fingers time and time again.

            His sons are wrong. He is no idol. That position has always belonged to Tang Shen.

            Splinter walks over to the water basin and soaks another rag. It has been one day and Donatello already has a fever. Splinter just hopes it isn’t an infection. After a minute in the basin, he pulls the rag out, squeezing out the extra water. He then brings the cloth over to his son and rests it on his forehead.

            His son. His brave, brilliant, kind, son. His face is far too blank. Splinter is far used to it being lost in thought, or caught in a smile. Even when he was a human, sick that first winter after Tang Shen’s death, his face was never this blank. Splinter can feel his heart sink. Places his hand on his sons forehead, right over the washcloth.

            “My son,” he said, voice a whisper. “I was a fool and I owe you a great apology. Please come back so I may give it to you.”

            He spends the next three days in that room and prays that Tang Shen does not keep her son for now. Not yet.


	2. Raphael

            Sometime late in the third day, it became clear that Donatello might not make it out of this one.

            Raph could tell, tell from the way his brother’s breathing became more labored, from how still Donnie was, from the fact that Don’s shell was still not showing signs of healing. He could tell when Donnie’s struggled breathing began to sound more like a death rattle. That morning, when Splinter tried once again to reach his Don in meditation, Raph saw his father begin to cry. Quiet and still, like he knew his son was watching and didn’t want him to see. Raph may not be a genius, but he could put two and two together. He knew what a crying Splinter meant.

            When Mikey saw the look in his eyes after that incident, the look of tired acceptance, his younger brother punched him. Hard. Screamed. Cried. Wailed. Accused him of giving up on Donnie. His punch left Raph with a split lip. A sign of the crime.

            Mikey was wrong. Raph was not going to give up on Don. He couldn’t. He couldn’t believe that Donnie would slip away from them after all they’ve been through. Donnie wouldn’t leave them by choice.

            And unlike Mikey, Raph understood that Donnie might not have a choice this time.

            He walked into Donnie’s room as quiet as possible, taking care to shut the door gently behind him. Raph had never been one for silence. He was one for slamming doors, for cranking up the volume, for laughing too loud at the television. Loud was a part of him. But with Donnie so still, it didn’t seem right. So he stripped that part of himself away and walked towards Donnie’s bed. In his arm was a plastic bag filled with one item. He paused at Don’s bedside table to pull it out of the bag. It was a photo of their family in a crappy black picture frame, most of the paint long chipped off. Raph usually kept it under his bed, out of sight, fearing his brother’s would tease him. He didn’t care about that now.

            There was a crate in front of his cot, a nice tall one that took the place of a chair. Splinter had been using it as a vigil since Donnie fell, and since his Father was currently asleep in his own quarters, Raph figured he wouldn’t mind if he borrowed. He sat down and placed the plastic bag on the floor in front of him.

            “Hey Don,” he said, his voice low. Don didn’t stir, still breathing heavily into his oxygen mask. After a moment of thought, Raph reached out and grasped his younger brother’s hand making sure not to yank his IV. His skin was far too cold and clammy. “It’s Raph. I brought you a picture. The one we took up at the farm.”

            He glanced at the photo frame. The picture was Mikey’s idea, and while Master Splinter objected to the idea, his sons eventually won him over. April gave them one as a present. A few days later, Raph got Casey to print him an extra copy.

            “Can’t believe it turned out so good,” Raph said. “Never thought we’d be a photogenic family. Specially’, Mikey. I was sure he was going to make some face and mess it up.”  He forced a smile and turned back to his brother. The candles in the darkness flickered, the flame desperate to keep surviving despite their small wicks. A few near the doorway had already gone out. Raph glanced at them, his eyes watering, and brushed his hand across his face. Not yet. Not now. He took a deep breath and faced Donnie again.

            “Everyone will be here soon. April and Casey too. They’re all out getting more supplies, worried bout you catching a fever.” He cleared his throat. “I made Splinter catch a quick nap. Promised to wake him up if somethin’ happened.” His voice grew softer. “ Well, when. He’s pretty sure it’s when.”

            Tears once again threatened to make an appearance, and this time Raph didn’t try to hold them off. He had to get his point across. Breakdowns could be saved for later.

            “I’m not givin’ up on you Don, and I know you aren’t giving up on us. I know you wouldn’t.” He pictured a different Don, old, mask-less, and alone, and shook his head. Different time, different Don. “But…I know we don’t always got a choice. I didn’t.” Another memory, one of him sitting on city streets, cold, alone and hungry. Searched for but never found. “So if you don’t, it ain’t your fault. I won’t blame you.” His grip on Don’s hand was so tight that it probably could have left bruises. “And I know we don’t always see eye to eye, and I don’t always get you, but you’re my little brother and-“

This was the hard part. Raph wasn’t one for verbal declarations of emotion. He preferred gestures. Slaps on the back meant “I’m proud of you.” Hugs were “Don’t do that again, I was worried.” Gestures were better than words. But they wouldn’t work this time. Words would have to do. He took off the purple mask he’d been wearing for the last few days and used it to wipe his face. It came back damp.

“I love you, Donnie. Member’ that, alright?”

He bowed his head, placing his hands over his eyes. Sobbing. When his family arrived forty minutes later, he would be in the same position. The Hamatos would stay there until dawn. Keeping vigil. Waiting. The candles in the room flickered until day broke, when they went out entirely.

On the forth day, Donatello still breathed.

 

 


	3. Michelangelo

            The first thing Mikey did when he saw Don awake, awake after a week of uncertainty, a week of nightmares, after a week of avoiding sleep in case he woke up with two brothers instead of three, was to run for it.

            Mikey liked running, liked getting out of their cramped living quarters and sprinting through the sewer tunnels. He’d often go for runs back when his family was still asleep, jogging around in the darkness for an hour before making breakfast. His family tried to make sense of it. Leo said it was because Mikey was probably honing his training in his own a special way. Raph claimed that Mikey just couldn’t keep still. Splinter didn’t comment, just smiling whenever her saw his son return from one of his morning jogs. But Don, Don knew the real reason. Because Don had asked. Back when they first got Raph back, tucked in their shared room as their elder brothers slept. He whispered the question in the darkness as Mikey stared at the ceiling, trying to map his own personal constellations in the concrete. It was his nighttime ritual.

            “Why do you run, Mikey? In the mornings,” He smiled, voice low. Mikey yawned, then went back to tracing the path of one of the larger cracks in the ceiling. If he squinted, it looked almost like a bird.

            “If I close my eyes,” Mikey said, half asleep. “I can pretend I’m flying.” He looked over one of the stains on the wall, one he had long pictured as a group of turtles. “It’d be cool if we could, you know? Flying ninjas and all that.”

            Don didn’t answer, but when Mikey found him working on a jetpack a week later (it didn’t work), he had a pretty good idea where his brother got the idea.

            The sprint he made from Don’s room to the sewers was not like his normal runs. He kept his eyes wide open as he scrambled through doors and passage ways. His feet seemed to drag with every step, like someone had attached weights to his ankles. The water that ran through his toes was no longer a comfort but a grounding reality. He was not flying. He was grounded. Weighed down by the memory of a broken bo staff and a pool of blood.

            “Mikey!” He heard Raph call after him, his brother’s footsteps echoing through the sewer. The sound of the water splashing told Mikey that he was close. “Mikey, stop!”

            He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t Raph see that? Stop and he’d drown.

            “Mikey!” The splashing noise grew closer. The water was now up to Mikey’s ankles, lapping higher towards his knees. It slowed him down. He tried to speed up, but from the sudden force he tripped landing face forward in the sewer water. Caught off guard, he breathed in a little, then choked.

            Strong hands pulled him out of the water, dragging him back then to the side. He struggled against them, seeking escape, but Raph was too strong. He pulled them back far enough where the water was lower and sat him down on a ledge dry ledge. Mikey coughed up some water, the taste was worst the second time.

            “Mikey! What are you doing!”

            Mikey didn’t answer. He was too busying trying to catch his breath. His lungs burned from the running and the water. It was hard to focus.

            “Ah shell, are you having a panic attack or something? I’m no good with those” Raph said, rubbing his brother’s shell awkwardly as Mikey tried to breath normally. Raph looked back towards the lair and then took a deep breath turning back to Mikey. “Mikey. Mikey listen. Don’s awake. Don’s okay.”

            “No he’s not,” Mikey said. His voice was scratchy and speaking sent him into another coughing fit. His breathing was much more steady now and he had stopped shaking. The sooner Raph got him home, the better.

            “Well he’s not now, but he will be.” He tucked his arm under Mikey’s, helping him up. “Especially when he sees you.”

            Mikey suddenly tensed and before Raph could avoid it, he pushed Raph away. Unprepared, Raph almost fell into the water, catching himself with his hands on the last minute.

            “What was that for?”

            “I can’t see him.” Mikey’s voice was harsh, quiet and made of steel. It reminded Raph of Leo. 

            “Of course you can,” Raph said, grabbing Mikey’s hand. He attempted to drag him towards home. Mikey didn’t budge.

            “No,” he said, leaving no room in his voice for argument, before it softened. “Raph, _I can’t_.”

            If his brother didn’t sound like he was begging, Raph would have been furious. Furious that after accusing him of giving up on Don a few days ago, that Mikey was being such a hypocrite. But with the week they had, Raph didn’t have much anger left in him. He sat back down on the ledge and patted the spot next to him. After a second, Mikey sat down.

            “Okay, what’s up? Spill.”

             Mikey placed his hands in his lap, grabbing them tightly. Raph could see the veins in his arms from the force. “I’m…I’m mad at him Raph.”

             That was….unexpected. Raph didn’t say anything, just placed his hand on Mikey’s shoulder.

            “He knew what was going to happen,” Mikey said, his voice starting out low. “He knew it. He knew they were gonna come for him. And he didn’t tell us.”

            “Mikey-“

            “Don’t.” He sounded like Raph this time, voice infused with a level of anger that Raph had never heard before. “He knew, he didn’t tell us, and he waited there to di-“ he closed his eyes tight and looked away for a moment. “He just let us leave him there, all alone, no backup. And we could have helped him! We could have! Not just us, anyone!” Mikey was yelling now, flailing his arms about in the air. Raph was forced to slide over to the side to leave him some space. “He just had to call! And it would have been fine. But no, he had to go solo, play the lone hero, and let come back to find him.” The anger was leaking out of his tone by degrees, replaced by a amount of sadness that was much harder to hear. “He just let us leave and told us he loved us, like that would make it better when we got back. And it didn’t. It made it worse.” He let out a deep breath, anger entirely gone from his posture and glanced at Raph. “Is this what it’s like to be you, Raph? So angry that you could burst? Because I don’t want it.”

            At that moment, Raph wanted to run himself. Wanted to run away from his lost little brother, and find Leo. Leo who knew how to solve almost every problem. Leo who was currently in Don’s room.

           Raph was not a leader. He’d grown to understand that over the last few months. But he was a big brother. And that would have to do.

          “You’re right,” he said.

           Mikey’s eyes widened with surprise. “Really?”

           Raph shrugged. “Really. Don was an idiot and you have the right to be furious with him. I have a bone to pick myself.” He smirked for a second before his expression grew more serious. “But right now, Don’s awake. He’s breathing. We can still yell at him about how he’s a dummy later. But for now, maybe we should be glad he’s around to yell at in the first place?”

           Mikey sighed. Tears still rolled down his cheeks, but they weren’t angry ones. “What am I supposed to say until then? Something instead of yelling.”

           Raph smiled, grapping his brother’s hand and hauling him back to his feel. He looked Mikey in the eyes, put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. He tightened his grip on Mikey’s shoulder. “Hello might be a good start.”

           They didn’t run back home. There would be time for running later, when Don was on his feet. Instead they walked careful and slow back through the sewers, back into their home, and right outside Don’s room. Mikey paused outside the door before knocking. When the door opened, everyone was there waiting. Don, confined to the bed, looked at his baby brother with a confused expression. Like he was trying to solve a hard math problem instead of the complexities of his brother’s emotional state. And with that, the anger faded, tucked itself away for later. Mikey smiled.

           “Hey Donnie.”

 

 


	4. Leonardo

        Despite his intellectual blabbering, Donatello was clearly an idiot.

        In the past week, since Don woke up, this fact was becoming clearer to Leonardo by the day. When normal people had their backs broken and almost died, they got some sleep, stayed in bed. And while Leonardo and his brothers were far from normal, he had assumed that Donatello might deal with his near death experience like a sane person. That his stupid little brother might actually be moved enough by their collective waterworks to take it easy, lay back, and let them fret over him.

        Upon finding Donatello’s sick bed empty for the third time in a week, Leonardo was starting to confront the unfortunate reality that his hopes were likely a pipe dream.

        Leonardo sighed, walking over to his brother’s empty cot. The sheets were rumpled, almost thrown off the bed entirely, and Leonardo could picture what Don had to do to get himself out of bed in the first place. Probably dragged himself up to the head of the bed, pulled over the wheelchair Casey had nabbed for him a few days back, and struggled his way into the seat. Given that Don hadn’t been able to use his legs without considerable agony since he got up, he probably used his arm strength for the entire venture. If Leonardo wasn’t so frustrated at his brother’s lack of self preservation, he would have been impressed.

        He turned towards the desk next to Donatello’s bed. On it were a few of the candles that Master Splinter had kept lit when Don was still out cold, along with a photograph of all of them together. Splinter in the way back, Raph and Leo and each side, with Mikey and Don in the middle. April took it back when Leo had recovered his memories, back at the farm. All of their masks were around their necks, their weapons out of sight, grinning into the camera like lunatics. Don had his arm around Mikey’s shoulder, his smile genuine despite the stress they’d been under. Raph had brought the photo in on the third day after Don’s attack, back when they thought Don wouldn’t make the night.

        Looking at it hurt, so Leonardo focused his gaze on Don’s laptop, which was right next to the photograph. If Don left it here, that only left one place where he could have gone off to. Leonardo turned around and headed out the door, walking straight towards Don’s lab. The den was empty, his brothers out on a supplies mission, his father fast asleep. He stepped over the clutter by the sofa, Mikey’s comics, Raph’s magazines, and eventually he made it to the door of Don’s lab. It was cracked open just a little, Don probably didn’t have the energy to close it all the way, and a flicker of blue light shone through.

        Leonardo pushed the door open. Only one light was on, the one right over the work table, where his missing brother sat. The table was cluttered, always was, though a selection of computer parts had been pushed to the far right corner, right where Don was sitting. His brother had his welding goggles on (because clearly, Leonardo thought, when he decided to be an idiot, he had to go all out) and Leonardo was thankful that the welder itself was still across the room.

        He cleared his throat. “Donnie.”

        Don looked up from his tinkering and pushed his goggles up. While he looked better than he had weeks ago (when he looked dead, a corpse, and Leonardo doesn’t let himself think about that for too long less he wants to lose it) his skin was still far too pale. Under the harsh lights, the bandages that wrapped his torso seemed almost illuminated. As soon as he saw the expression on Leonardo’s face, his shoulders dropped slightly, a grimace taking over his expression.

         “I thought you were asleep,” Don said. His voice was still weak though Leonardo didn’t know if it was from exhaustion, disuse, or sheer pain. Leonardo crossed his arms, attempting to mimic a stance that Raph dubbed “older brother says get your shit together.”

         “I thought you were in bed,” Leonardo countered. Don sighed, rubbing his hand down his face, and Leonardo didn’t miss the slight twitch of pain on his brother’s face from that slight movement.

         “Leo-“

         “You’re going back to bed Don.” And there was the Raph dubbed “older brother is in charge” voice. “You shouldn’t have left it in the first place.”

          Don put his hands on the workbench. His right hand began fiddling with a screw and he began to scratch the tabletop. “Look, I’ve been in bed for over a week now. The Foot is still out there, and after what happened, we need to fix up security.” He jammed the screw into one of the table’s cracks. “I need to fix up security. Which I can’t do from in my room.”

          Leonardo rolled his eyes. Leave it to Don to worry about everyone else when everyone was too busy worrying about him. He walked over to his brother and grabbed the handles of Don’s wheelchair, pulling him away from the table. Don let out a small yelp and reached out for his screwdriver, grabbing it with only a second to spare. Leonardo ignored him as he began to protest, pushing him towards the door.

         “Security is fine. Everyone has a lookout going on, and the Foot is currently busy dealing with the Krang fallout. Harold is working on the repairs to your computer-“

          “ _You let Harold near my computer_!”

         Leonardo sighed. “We won’t let him mess with it. Look,” he paused, looking down at his brother. The large bandage that kept Donatello’s shell together hurt to look at. There were still small patches of red leaking through the layering. Don probably irritated his wounds with his escapades.. “Our biggest concern is you getting better.” Leonardo took a deep breath. “We thought we lost you, okay? You’re still badly hurt. Just let us take care of you.”

         Don frowned, closing his eyes for a second before opening them once more. “Alright, fine,” he said, sounding defeated. “But could an invalid do this?”

         Before Leonardo could comment, Don threw the screwdriver out of his hands like it was a throwing star. It went a few feet before hitting the doorknob and bouncing to the floor. Don watched as the screwdriver rolled across the ground until it vanished underneath one of his desks. The two boys were quiet for a moment.

         “Do what? Attack the door?” Don sighed, and gestured towards the lab door. It was covered in posters, some of scientists, some of video games, but right in the center was a small bullseye.

          “I was aiming for the bullseye.”

           Leonardo stifled a laugh. “Aim could use a little work.” 

          “Shut up.”

           Leonardo pushed Don out the door, leaving the lab behind them.


	5. Casey

Back when he was 10, Casey Jones broke his arm.

It wasn’t his first broken bone, and it wouldn’t be his last. It was a sports injury, one from street basketball, and Casey remembered the exact lurch his stomach made when he heard the bone snap. It was a clean brake, nothing too bad, and his mother doted on him for like a solid month afterwards. A standard kid injury. Nothing more, nothing less.

Except for the cast. 

That year was the year his family had stellar health insurance, and as a result, the year he got to go to a hospital that wasn’t a shit show. The doctors were kind, and the tools weren’t hopelessly outdates. But the best part was when it came to cast time, there was more options than standard white.

Casey Jones, an admittedly eccentric adult, was an equally eccentric kid. So the bright lime green cast he wore the next day to school shouldn’t had been as big of a surprise as his class made it out to be.

Casey didn’t think that story often, he had a lot more things on his mind these days, but watching Donatello wheel around in a shitty wheelchair that they jacked from a junkyard, Casey couldn’t help but remember how much the lime green option made his day.

“What are you looking at, Casey?” 

Casey blinked, grounding himself in the present. He was sitting on the sofa in the turtles home, hockey stick slung on the table, mask on the floor. The rest of the gang was out, April at class, the rest on a supply run, which left Casey and Don. Don was behind the television, playing with a few of the wires. In the two weeks Don had been awake, he’d gotten increasingly better, and while his legs were still a possible crapshoot, he was wheeling throughout the bunker like a champ. Which meant, despite Leo’s attempts otherwise, the tech repair turtle was back in business. 

“Uh, nothing. What’s wrong with the T.V?”

Don poked his head out from behind the television. His pair of tinkering glasses teetered on the tip of his nose. “The T.V? Nothing. Mikey just wants to have access to HBO.”

Casey got up and walked towards the front of the television, bending down so he was eye level with the bottom of the screen. “HBO?”

Don shrugged. “He wants to watch Game of Thrones.” 

Casey restrained a chuckle. Sounded like Mikey. Though, now that he thought about it, the youngest turtle might be a little young for the joys of HBO. He might have to rat him out to Master Splinter. 

He looked back at Don. The chair Don was in was pretty terrible, the black paint almost entirely chipped off in sections. He remembered getting it with April, back after Donnie had just woken up. He had to dig through at least a dozen piles of landfill garbage to find it. It wasn’t a hassle: anything was better than the phone call he got Raph a week before that consisted of heavy breathing and the phrase “Donnie’s gone.”

Donnie was certainly not gone and the television was there to prove it. The screen flickered on, once, twice, before settling on a interview with the HBO logo in the bottom right corner. Donnie wheeled himself so he could see the front of the television and cheered.

“I am the master-” he threw up his arms and immediately winced, bringing them back down to his lap. His face was a little pale. Casey rushed over to his side, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Okay, shouldn’t have done that.”

“You okay, Don? Need some pain meds.” Donnie waved him off, shaking his head.

“No, no, I’m fine. Just got a little too excited.”

Casey rubbed his patted his friend’s shoulder. Don’s smile had vanished, replaced by something Casey couldn’t name. He could place it though; he had seen the same expression in his own face when he stared at himself in the mirror after his Dad’s “fights.” He turned his gaze towards Donnie’s wheelchair again, to the faded paint and before he could really think it through, he spoke.

“Have you ever thought about giving this a paint job?”

Don’s head shot up and at that exact moment Casey could swear he was the stupidest man alive. No tact, Jones, way to go. “What?”

Casey considered back tracking, and by back tracking, running for the next room. But years of not knowing how to keep his mouth shut propelled him forward. “Uh, giving this a paint job? I mean, it’s a little shoddy, and honestly, it could use a nice layer to deal with the scratches. I mean, not another layer of black if you didn’t want it, like something brighter, more funky.” Casey focused on the seat itself. “And you know, the seat is a little torn, and I know a place where we could get good seat covers, like nice ones. With built in pockets so you could keep tools and shit in there so you don’t always have to go back to your lab. Something to make it nicer till you get back on your feet and-”

At that exact moment, Casey noticed Don staring at him like he had grown two heads, and one of them was the Shredder. “Uh…if you want to of course.”

Don kept on staring. Casey tried to not be obvious as he made sure there were no weapons that Don could beat him with in a five foot distance. After what seemed like an age, Don blinked, and this time Casey recognized the look in his eyes. The mad genius cometh. 

“I wonder,” Don said, very slowly, a tinge of glee to his voice. “If I could get built in tasers on this thing.”

Five hours and three cans of purple spray paint later, Casey Jones was positive he had created a monster.


	6. Epilogue

 

            Mikey was 99% certain he was dying. Because there was absolutely no way that any man or turtle could puke this much without being critically ill.

            He’d been curled up in front of the toilet for almost an hour now, only bothering to get up once when he needed a towel. Every time he thought his stomach was empty, which was often, he barely made it to a standing position before he was forced to return back to the floor. After the fifth time, he just stopped bothering to get up in the first place. His stomach hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

            Screw the Shredder. The stomach flu was the real menace terrorizing the world.

            “Mikey!” Someone pounded hard on the door. Don. “It’s time for patrol! Leo and Raph are already outside!”

            And wasn’t that just great. Don’s first patrol since getting sidelined and Mikey was a walking biohazard. He groaned, pressing his head close to the cold concrete floor. It wasn’t as great as a wet towel, but it did the trick of helping his headache. Maybe if he pressed it there for five more minutes, he’d suddenly be good for patrol. “Go away, Don! I’ll be out in a minute….” his stomach made a noise that sounded far too ominous for his liking “or five.”

            “Mikey? You don’t sound so good.” Mikey closed his eyes. Now Don sounded worried. Just great. The last thing Don needed to be these days was worried. He heard something pick at the lock and a few seconds later the door was wide open. Don was all dressed for patrol, his new bo staff slung over his shoulder. Raph burned the old one, the one that had been snapped in half and left to soak up Don’s blood while he bled out. Don was mad about it (“that staff held memories! Good ones!”) but Mikey was secretly glad Raph trashed the thing. Keeping it felt like keeping a corpse.

            Don looked at his little brother. Mikey might not have actually been dying, but he sure looked like it, sprawled on the floor. Don rushed over and turned Mikey’s forehead towards him. Mikey groaned as his brother put his palm over his forehead. At least the floor was cold.

            “Dude,” Mikey tried to squirm away so he could get back to trying to ignore his headache. “Let go.”

            “Oh geeze,” Don said. “You’re burning up.” Mikey couldn’t help but groan. Geeze? Who said geeze? Donatello Hamato, apparently.

            “You have to get some new slang,” Mikey muttered. “You sound like a sitcom.” Don wasn’t paying attention. He was speaking into his t-shell, whispering something about the stomach flu and for Raph and Leo to leave without them and-

            “No, no, no, no, no.” The words came out all at once. Mikey pushed at Don’s hands and said four words he thought he’d never utter. “I can’t miss patrol.”

            Don stared at him for a few seconds. “Now I know you’re sick,” he said, quiet. Then, he hauled Mikey off the floor, keeping his free hand on Mikey’s shell. Mikey stumbled to his feet. Step by step, Don began to lead Mikey to his room.

            “I can’t miss patrol,” Mikey said as they made it halfway across the hall. The world seemed very bright outside the bathroom. He’d been in there for too long. “I can’t. I gotta come with you guys. You can’t go without me. ”

            They took another few steps forward. Don was practically holding him up at this point. It was hard to believe he’d been so weak three months ago. “Mikey, you can’t even stand.”

            And well, he couldn’t’ argue against that. They made it into Mikey’s room like a stumbling pair of drunks. It took some effort, but soon enough, Mikey was in his bed. The warm sheets were absolutely better than the cement floor, that was for sure. Don moved the trash can over towards Mikey’s bed for easy access, then turned towards the door. The sight of Don’s shell made Mikey’s stomach turn. It had healed up nicely, well as nicely as could be expected, but the scar that remained was brutal.  Jagged and sharp, the fissure ran down the side of Don’s shell was incredibly noticeable. Just seeing it on normal days made him nauseous. The very sight of it made him smell blood in the air.

            “Wait.” He grabbed Don’s wrist before he could get out of reach. Don stopped, glancing back at his little brother. Mikey opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Mikey was a vocal guy, that was for sure, but being able to speak was a lot different than being able to say what needed to be said. Words were complicated like that. How could he explain it? Explain how, the last time he let Don out of his sight, he came back to find a corpse. Explain that while he trusted Leo and Raph, he would never forgive himself if he wasn’t there for Don again. Stomach flu be damned.

            Instead, he said what came to mind. “Don’t leave. Please.”

            To his surprise, Don smiled. Gently pried Mikey’s hand from his wrist. “I’m not leaving. I told the others to go without me, remember?”

            Mikey’s already befuddled brain ground to a complete stop. Stop. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 dollars worth of pizza. “What?’

            Don bent down next to Mikey’s bed. “I’m not going. You’re burning up, Father is out and someone has to stay with you. I was just going to grab a wet rag. You’re burning up.”

            Mikey stared at Don. “But…it’s your first patrol since-“ He couldn’t say it. Don shook his head and rolled his eyes.

            “There will be other patrols. I got to take care of my only little brother, right?” Don grinned, that smartass grin that Mikey thought he’d never see again for four terrible days. It was glorious. Don patted Mikey’s head and got up. Threw his bo staff on the bed. Be the time Mikey worked through the haze in his brain, his older brother was gone.

            The stomach flu may have been a menace, Mikey thought, but it didn’t try take Don away. Maybe Shredder could have top spot on Mikey’s shit list after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I add an April chapter, I'll put it somewhere in here. Until then, consider this finished.


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